


Spare-Change Soldier

by sallysorrell



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Drabble Collection, Gen, PTSD, Soldiers, Wordcount: 100
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-03
Updated: 2013-10-23
Packaged: 2017-12-25 13:41:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/953764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sallysorrell/pseuds/sallysorrell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson is more than a jar on the sidewalk, and more than his cane and his cast. His prescription of pity and privacy doesn't seem to be working… A series of 100-word drabbles about John's life before he met Sherlock. In random order.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The sun seared his skin. His throat crumbled, unable to scream, groan or _breathe_.

John stared at the struggling soldier on the ground in front of him. The one he was sent out to save.

He watched some blood, blending on the sand. He refused to recognize his own.

_No, you don't shoot the medics_ , he thought, even as he fell, _You just don't._

The patch on his shoulder, which he _knew_ was perfectly visible, was thick and soggy. Somehow, his blood felt heavier on the outside of his body.

He reached for his patient, as they both lost consciousness.


	2. Chapter 2

John _wanted_ to walk with both hands in his pockets. He would scrunch up his eyes, lean over, and try to fold himself up as he walked. They would think he was in a rush, right? Late for something productive and important. No time for gazes, or words, or pity.

John _actually_ walked with neither hand in his pockets. One grappled with the cane, and the other tapped desperately at the railing. The stairs made him miserable. So did everything.

Of all the therapists they could've assigned him; her office was downtown, and upstairs. This, he decided, was not worthwhile.


	3. Chapter 3

John blinked in time with his pulse. He counted the tubes in his arms and listened to the machines, mumbling all around him. For almost a fortnight, he'd slept.

The hospital was barely more than a tent. Wires, flickering light-bulbs, partially-trained staff.

His uniform, disgraced by sand and blood, was folded at his feet. He noticed a number on his shoulder, instead of his medical insignia, and sighed.

"I'm sorry, Captain," said a comrade, hovering in the doorway.

John prepared to learn of an amputation, missing medication, or imminent death.

"Hmm?" John rolled his eyes.

The worst news:

"Honourable Discharge."


	4. Chapter 4

John never enjoyed aeroplanes. Upon joining the military, he forced himself to accept them as inevitable.

His flight home, the only one he would ever take, was torturous as he expected. The plane rattled, making it impossible to discern whether they were safely flying or harshly landing.

At his insistence, his leg was bandaged and propped up on the facing seat. They would be removing the stitches from his shoulder, soon after landing. Most of the time, he refused to believe he'd been shot. If prompted, he would complain about falling poorly on his leg, and argue about his Discharge.


End file.
